It was your first encounter. It hurt a little bit at first: You didn’t really know what to expect, and whenever you asked for details, no one seemed able to give you a straight answer. Your friends had been telling you for a while that it’s really a lot of fun with the caveat that before getting into it, you really have to relax and be in the right frame of mind. Things started out a bit messy — confusing — even stressful, but before you knew it, the rhythm set in and you got into the groove. It began: a resurfacing of a certain carnal recognition of various guilty pleasures — guilty pleasures about slaves, humps and other dirty little secrets. After a short while, you couldn’t help but want more. More, you yelped. More. And Gregg gave it to you. Gregg Gillis gave it to you hard.
You might have thought that the previous account detailed the recent CCA sponsored event at which Gregg Gillis and his band Girl Talk performed in front of a crowd mixed with raving fanatics and virgin ears. In actuality, however, the following was excerpted from my latest diary entry (read: wet dream), which was just an allegory for the recent CCA sponsored event.
At the promotional function this past Friday for the re-branding of Volume: Yale’s Music Magazine — though I must ask: can one re-brand that which has not been branded? — Gregg Gillis and his dreamy blue eyes graced the Ezra Stiles Dining Hall stage before an adoring crowd of Yalie fans … and lost Stilesians. As a biomedical engineer by day and angel of heavenly music by night, Gillis made the trip from his day job in Pittsburgh to come to New Haven to rock our world. An inside source says that Gillis, having forgotten to rent a car, was picked up at Tweed International Airport by a Yale student and was chauffeured to his apartment room, lent to him by the show’s producer.
The event opened on a familiar note with the well-regarded Harlem Shakes.
Then an unassuming gentleman in blue athletic shorts and nylon jacket came on stage and completed his sound check. Little did we all know that this man of mystery was, in fact, Gregg Gillis himself, who by the end of his performance was pantsless, crowd surfing and covered in the love juice of his faithful audience. Ears, untouched by such sounds, bled. Other worshippers, immersed in the musical euphoria, closed their eyes and opened their mouths with an insatiable thirst for more creamy goodness. It was not long before the stage overflowed with the unsyncopated movement of rhythmically challenged Yalies, and latecomers were denied entrance at the door. At double the maximum capacity of the venue and crammed tighter than the Amistad, the crowd reveled in response to his laptop antics and Nirvana cover and bore firsthand witness to his sexy, mind-blowing abs. One Yale student described the experience as, “uninhibited, free hardcore XXX, ecstatic glee:” an experience that can only be described as uninhibited, free hardcore XXX, ecstatic glee.
But reports confirm that the dance party did not terminate with the closing of his hour-long set. Gillis made his way to the Crown Street afterparty just as I was about to finish my post-coital cigarette. Some say he teleported to the locale; others claim Bat-mobile. Overwhelmed by barrage of “Omg~ that was such a great set!,” “Girl Talk — I love you!”, and “Can I get your phone number?”, the man himself finally let loose, downed his complementary bottle of Jack Daniels and was later spotted discussing pertinent topics in biomedical engineering. After the afterparty, Gillis forwent the hotel lobby and headed back to his apartment …
… but not alone. There was only one lucky pussy who got to experience all the glory for which we longed: Chloe, a feline resident of his borrowed digs.
Joe Aphinyanaphongs was not the lucky pussy in Girl Talk’s bed last weekend, but his feline prowess should not be underestimated.